Four Spirits

by Sena Jeter Naslund

  When she was home, her mother had laughed at her, but then she had stopped, just all of a sudden, and said, “They can’t expect a child to be a scientist. You done good, for the first time.”

  You can’t expect any child to be perfect all the time. That was her mother’s lesson.

  Lee shook her head. She didn’t believe that, and she didn’t believe what you saw out of the side of your eye. Because that couldn’t be true. Because she would never hurt one of her children. She had control about that. She bit off the end of one of the Popsicle columns, the left side first.

  The lump of cold in her mouth cooled her tongue so hard it almost burned. For a moment she stopped walking to hold her Popsicle up in one outstretched arm, like Vulcan. Twice as powerful as Vulcan. If he could talk, Vulcan would say, You did it! You had the nerve to kill, little girl, because he was a pagan god. Her minister was agitating to have him pulled down. Ryder deserved it—seemed like Vulcan himself was rumbling approval from up on the mountain. She’d always liked Vulcan and felt proud of him. Birmingham was famous for Vulcan. Her minister was a weakling.

  She licked and bit till half the Popsicle was gone, and there was the pretty jagged half, full of ice crystals on one edge like little needles. She heard the sound of a fire truck, its bell, and a siren. A police car drove right past her, lights flashing, red and blue.

  She was just a lady with a white lace shawl who was enjoying a red Popsicle, walking along on the sidewalk.

  People get what they deserve, she thought. Otherwise, God wasn’t good, and he had to be good to be God. Justice was good. She’d done justice. Then she saw the pictures again—those four colored girls—the way they’d been in the newspaper. They were just children. And she didn’t understand how God had let it happen in his own house. Maybe it was to make people think. Maybe it was to make people like her think. But that wasn’t fair. God wouldn’t make them die so a white woman would think. God was better than that. They had the same God as her; if that wasn’t true, what was the point of sending missionaries to Africa?

  Ryder hadn’t suffered. That was the only problem. He hadn’t suffered like he’d made her suffer. And he hadn’t known she was the one who blew him to kingdom come.

  But she felt fit. She felt absolutely fine. She loved her own sweat. The way she could walk and walk, and not get tired, at least not very tired. She glanced behind her and saw the bus marked 15 Norwood, felt her pocket—yep, there was her getaway money. She raised up her hand (just about like Vulcan) so the driver would stop.

  She’d go back in time. She’d ride the bus to Norwood. She’d walk on Norwood Boulevard. She’d find the house where the kind old crippled woman lived. She’d chew Juicy Fruit again and take some home to her kids, especially Bobby.

  What had she seen? She’d seen the deep lace, starched and white, of the cloth next to the bed, dangling not far from Ryder’s face and the scar on his cheek. She never had asked him how he’d come by that scar. And now he probably didn’t have any cheek or any head. Stop! Or I’ll blow your head off. That was what they said in the movies. She imagined his head, still asleep, blowing out the window, but what had she seen? Just the roar of glass flying out, and the flames, like a refiner’s fire. The quick purity of the flames. And a little Superman.

  No, not that!

  Here was the Boulevard, and she pulled the exit cord. She had to get out!

  “Bobby!” she screamed as her foot hit the ground. “Bobby!” The bus pulled rapidly away. She was tearing her own hair out. “Bobby!” She began to run. She’d find the crippled lady. The crippled lady would let her in. She’d always been so kind. Whenever she’d remembered her all those years, she’d been kind. So fragile, like china, but just as kind as she could be. She remembered where the house was—up a little hill. And three children, just like hers, playing in the yard next door. The little girl had been blond, just like her Shirley. And right now, Big Mama was probably giving her own children little glasses of milk and taking the peanut butter cookies, with the crisscrossed fork marks on top, out of the oven. That’s where her kids were, with her own mother, but where was that house?

  Go up a little hill. It’s close. Yes, if she turned right, she’d go up the hill, and she knew it was close to Vanderbilt Road. And then in her mind, she saw the house number, just like it was: 3621. She hadn’t pictured that for many years. And there it was, in skinny metal letters:3621, and the two number had a little wiggle in it. All the thin numbers slanted decoratively. And she thanked God for letting her remember what she needed to remember and to forget what she needed to forget.

  As she hurried up the porch steps, she could hear music from some TV show like The Guiding Light; yes, that was the sort of thing the old lady would listen to. Lee pushed the doorbell button and unleashed a terrible rasp of a sound. Did no one ever ring this bell? She heard movement inside, a slow thump, a sound like a dragging foot. Then the voice, “I’m coming,” and yes, it was the same voice, with the same quaver, and from inside, the lady was running the clasp chain out of its metal slot and she was opening the door.

  “Please,” Lee said. “I came here when I was a little girl.”

  “Did you?” the woman asked slowly. She was cautious. Her face was more deeply lined than Lee had remembered it, but her hair was exactly the same shade of deep red, only now Lee knew it must be dyed. And then the woman’s name, like the house number, came back to her.

  “Aunt Pratt!” Lee exclaimed.

  “Well, that’s me,” she quavered. “But you look all upset. Come on in, darling.”

  Lee had to restrain herself as Aunt Pratt moved slowly out of the way. How had she known Lee wouldn’t come bursting in, knock her down accidentally? Or be a robber? Slowly, slowly, Aunt Pratt moved to one side and then gave the glass door a little shove.

  “Come on in,” Aunt Pratt repeated, as though she was speaking to a reluctant cat.

  And Lee was inside. Yes, Aunt Pratt was dressed all in red, even her shoes were red. The same heavy metal brace with the leather knee pad encased one leg. The brace went right through the shoe heel.

  “Lord, darling,” Aunt Pratt said, “I don’t really know who you are.”

  “I’m Lee Jones. I live over—over yonder.”

  “Oh, Lee. I remember. You’re married to cousin Millie’s nephew Ryder Jones.”

  “I never knew we was kin.”

  “Oh, yes. That’s the connection.” She spoke so carefully, her voice seemed all cracked. “Please sit down. I am so sorry. I saw it on the TV. Channel Six but not Channel Thirteen.”

  “I blowed up my husband,” Lee blurted out.

  “Oh no,” Aunt Pratt said. “You must never say that again.”

  Lee was surprised, but she became silent.

  “He blowed himself up,” Aunt Pratt said. “That was on live TV. Sit down on that settee.”

  Slowly Aunt Pratt reached out with her good foot and dragged the brace leg after her. Thump and drag. Time was about to slow to a stop. Thump and drag till she reached the dining room armchair, built up with an extra thick cushion, that had been placed in the living room. “I don’t get around so well anymore,” Aunt Pratt said. “Did Ryder bring you to visit? I don’t quite remember when you were here.”

  “I was trying to sell tomatoes and vegetables. I came to the front door, and you gave me some chewing gum.” Lee let one hand wring the other. She couldn’t help it. Over and over her hands tumbled like savage kittens.

  “You need to calm down,” Aunt Pratt said politely. “Go into the kitchen and open the icebox. Get out the juice and an egg and break the egg in it. That’s what I always drink when I get upset about Son—”

  At the very word, Lee bolted from the settee. She couldn’t go outside. She hurried through the dining room into the kitchen. She did as she was told. It was on TV!

  When Lee came back to the living room, Pratt told her to change the channel. “You must turn the sound down,” Aunt Pratt instructed. “My niece Stella has a sick headach
e, and she’s in that front bedroom lying down. I don’t think she heard you though.”

  There was Lee’s house! The firemen were hosing the house. A tragic accident occurred today…. Lee could hardly stand to listen. Then the camera panned over to her mother, and! Bobby! The sound came on and the lens moved close on his face, and in agony, he yelled, “Where’s my mama?”

  “Here,” Lee yelled. “I’m right here safe with Aunt Pratt!” And she burst into ragged sobs.

  “I was so scared,” she told Aunt Pratt in jagged bursts. “That I might of killed my son, too, ’cause he might of gone back.”

  Aunt Pratt put her finger across her bright red lips. “Shhhh. You didn’t kill anybody. Don’t say that.”

  Then Lee knew she was looking into the face of goodness. She was a cracked-up old china doll, but Aunt Pratt was the goddess of goodness. Bobby was alive! Here was her second chance. Lee tried hard to calm herself. Realizing that she still had the tall glass in her hand, she gulped down the raw egg. The unbroken yolk was just a soft little ball traveling down to her stomach. Aunt Pratt was looking at her through her rose-tinted bifocals. “I believe I do remember you,” she said.

  “Are you my real aunt?”

  “You can call me that if you want to. Just like Nancy. I’ve always been Aunt Pratt to Nancy, but I hardly get to see her since she moved over the mountain. Did you play with Stella when you were little?”

  Lee just shook her head. The newscaster was saying A neighbor saw Mrs. Jones hurrying down the street to collect a prize, but Mrs. Jones’s mother fears that her daughter, Lee Jones, might still be in the house—Lee began to sob again. Oh, how she hated to worry her mother like that.

  “Well, turn it off,” Aunt Pratt said. “It’s all too upsetting. You need to call a cab and go home.”

  “I don’t have the money,” Lee said. She stood up to go.

  “Wait, darling.” Aunt Pratt reached past the starched handkerchief gathered up into a bow. It looked like a big butterfly sitting all across her chest. The thin handkerchief was printed with red roses.

  “I always keep a little mad money tucked in my brassiere,” Aunt Pratt said. And out came a five-dollar bill, caught between the two red pinchers of fingertips. “Go back to the telephone and call the Yellow Cab. It’s in that little hall, off the kitchen. The number is stuck to the telephone stand with Scotch tape. You’ll see it.”

  On her way to the kitchen this time, Lee was elated. She noticed the nice dining room furniture. The china cabinet had glass doors, and she could look right in at the stacks of dinner plates, fruit bowls, soup bowls, cups and saucers, all dainty and matching, decorated with a pale green border and a cluster of pink and blue flowers, and the clear, cut-glass goblets. But the kitchen furniture was old and beat up. The metal-top cook table was a lot like hers, covered with little scratches. People had tables like that all over Birmingham.

  It was a pleasure to dial a taxi. Once more Ryder’s sleeping face appeared like a picture in a frame in her mind. The picture even had glass over it. And then, strangely satisfying, Bobby framed in the TV screen, screaming for her, just for her. When she glanced around with the telephone receiver clamped to her ear, the whole world seemed to have glass between her and it. As though to touch the hard, clear barrier, she lifted her fingers. Lee said the house number right off to the dispatcher, as though she lived here. Good thing she knew 3621 by heart because the old auntie hadn’t thought to tell it to her.

  Lee wished she could come live here. She walked back toward Aunt Pratt, but she paused before the china cabinet. She saw her own reflection like a ghost hovering over the pretty plates. She admired the reflection of the deep lace on her shawl. Pratt had mentioned a Stella—probably a stuck-up snob—but surely somebody else lived here, too. Wasn’t any man, Lee could tell that. This place seemed like old ladies, all hushed and dull.

  She’d just have to rent a new place. But how would she pay for it with Ryder dead? Yes, he was really dead. Surely the TV was right about that. Lee glanced at the blank TV in the living room.

  Waiting for Lee’s return, Old Aunt Pratt was just sitting in the living room, with her brace leg sticking out, staring at the blank TV screen. When Aunt Pratt didn’t know Lee was watching, her face was daydream still and vacant. Lee imagined Pratt did a lot of staring in space and waiting for people. For a moment, Lee felt depressed and sorry for Pratt—next to helpless, all fussed up in red. But Lee was excited. It was a strange and wonderful thing to see the house you lived in go up in flames in black and white on the TV. She imagined it again; the TV even had had the lapping sound and roar of the fire. She wondered if LeRoy had arrived yet.

  LeRoy! Yes, he ought to take care of her and the children. That was the least he could do for his dead brother. She loved her mama, and that would be all right for a while for Lee and the children to live with her. Mama would bake her cherry pie for whenever LeRoy came over, and her apple one, too. He would come to call in his blue police uniform.

  Lee wondered if LeRoy ever would get rough with her. She knew all men got a little rough from time to time. She’d just have to take it, if he did. That would be her job. As long as he didn’t go too far. Suddenly there was a thrill in her body.

  The image of Bobby and his voice crying out for her wrung her heart. But she knew she was safe, and she’d be home soon. Thanks to Aunt Pratt. Yes, she could have a nice home like this someday, with a china cabinet and chairs with silk burgundy seats. A policeman like LeRoy made lots more than a filling station attendant.

  “You sure been good to me,” Lee said to Aunt Pratt.

  Lee took off her shawl, shook it out, and refolded it into a square with the layers of lace on top. It was like a square, shallow cake frosted with handmade lace. She placed it in Aunt Pratt’s lap.

  “Sweetheart,” Pratt quavered, “you don’t have to give me anything.”

  Saturday: Lionel

  AS SOON AS CHRISTINE RECOGNIZED HIM—HIS FORM reflected in the store window—Lionel Parrish saw a shy, proud smile spread over her face. But Christine looked concerned, too. Lionel loved that expression. It felt good to have a smart woman wrinkle up her face in all kinds of different ways because she cared more about you than herself. And it was all captured in the murky reflective glass—two ghosts, him moving toward her, then the way she turned toward him. The two of them almost making a wavering movie.

  Pleased as punch, perhaps a little embarrassed about how she’d loved on him last night, she said, “What you doing down here?” She glanced around at the tall buildings.

  “I came for the sit-in, naturally.” He could hardly suppress the little swagger that ran across his shoulders.

  Her face all frowned up, she said, “You ain’t supposed to be studying no sitin. How you know about this?”

  “Stella called me. At school. Cat told Stella, Stella told me.” He shrugged his shoulder. “Gloria’s going to bring Cat down here for this. Did you know that?”

  “I’m gonna get that Gloria.” Did Christine disapprove or was she pleased? Lionel couldn’t tell. With his mother, too, it had been hard to tell the difference. Christine queried, “Stella coming?”

  “Just Cat. Stella said she was going to work at the switchboard.”

  “And what she mean calling you at school? How can she be so dumb? Agnes been saying it. That phone bugged. It bugged. Police know everything now.”

  Lionel refused to give up his relaxed state. It was just too becoming. “That’s what I figured, too.”

  “You know Bull know and still you come?”

  Lionel could tell she was touched. She’d let go of her peeve. “My best students and teachers are here.” He leaned close to her ear and whispered, “My best woman is here.” He drew back to watch her smile. “Might as well make myself useful,” he said.

  She reached out her hand for a quick squeeze. That was all right to do, Lionel thought. While the traffic moved past on Twentieth Street, they could have their little sidewalk drama. Christine had seri
ous issues, social issues on her mind, and he respected that. Matilda just lived her own life, gloriously, happily, but Matilda wouldn’t be putting her body on the line. And Jenny was a homebody; she was made to be a housewife. But this woman, with all her angles and abruptness, she was a mover and shaker. In more ways than one. Like she was starved.

  “If you’d consulted me,” Lionel said fondly, “I would have said there’s only two things that move this community to change.”

  He watched Christine’s face go soft again, pleased to be talking with him, confident suddenly that they were intimates. “What’s that?” she asked.

  “Prayer and money. Like May a year ago. It wasn’t the marching, it was the boycotting brought Birmingham to its knees. Over in Mississippi, folks go and pray on the white folks’ church steps Sunday mornings. We ought to do that. It shames them.”

  “You may be right.” She shrugged. “But I got this going. What’d you say to Stella?”

  “Oh, I tried to throw them off. I said Christine’s way too smart to sit in at the Tutwiler Hotel Drugstore. She called it all off.”

  Christine looked troubled. “Agnes told me they do got dogs over at the Tutwiler.”

  “Was I right?”

  “ ’Bout what?”

  “You way too smart to go ahead with any sit-in today.”

  He saw her eyes narrow, knew that he had underestimated her.

  “You don’t have to be in this,” she said. She spoke in a new key, one that was full of softness and hard as iron. “I didn’t ask you to come down here and try to tell me what to think and do. You my love now, but I thought you believed in Martin Luther King. I thought you knew what nonviolent protest was all about.” Then she licked her lips and added the barb, “Ain’t you ever heard of Mahatma Gandhi or Martin Luther King Jr.?”